


Vulnerability

by stillicidium



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, POV Second Person, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28154835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillicidium/pseuds/stillicidium
Summary: Congratulations on being the one therapist that Christopher Arclight hasn't ghosted throughout the years. He did, however, abruptly leave his last session with you. You've noticed he has a bad habit of running from emotions; maybe you can get him to sit with them for a little bit instead.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> super self-indulgent nonsense incoming. inspired by dreams about Chris being in therapy and people's headcanons about him being an ugly crier. I don't usually write 2nd person pov so... enjoy.

Christopher comes into your office with an inability to meet your gaze for longer than a fleeting second. He decides to sit further away from you today, closer to the door; he still hesitates when he looks around the office and seems to hyper-fixate on the section of the sofa closest to you. It happens every session, without fail: you close the door behind you, he moves to take a seat, stops, stares at that same cushion, and usually defaults to the center spot. Today, he’s changing it up, and in a way that makes sense in his defense, but not in the way that would indicate him making much progress.

“You’re sitting so far away!” You try to sound jovial when you make your observation. During his initial assessment, you noticed that he responds positively when you try to lighten the mood. He’s not having it today, though. He still won’t meet your eye, and he’s folding and unfolding his hands as he tries to get comfortable. “I’m gonna have to shout to get you to hear me at this rate.” You offer a smile and decide to see what happens if you scoot your desk chair a bit closer to the coffee table. 

Chris tenses his shoulders and his gaze flits towards the door. You let him sit in silence for a little bit, about twenty seconds. Usually it makes him uncomfortable enough to speak up, but today, he appears content to sit and think.

“How are you doing, Chris?”

He shrugs and continues to sit with his arms resting on his knees. It’s odd for him - he’s usually a stickler for perfect posture in your office. “Fine, I guess.” 

“Just fine?” 

“Just fine.” 

You’re trying to get him to expand on his vocabulary when it comes to feeling words. He uses the same few each time you start a session: fine, good, okay, not well. Whenever you ask him to elaborate, he’ll go as far as to say he’s: tired, calm, maybe a little irritated. You decide not to push the issue right now, though.

“I’d like to talk about what happened last Friday, if that’s something you’re comfortable with. I don’t want to push you.” You like to sit with your legs crossed at the knee, but Chris seems to respond well to body language, and talks more if you’re seated a bit more openly. You keep both feet on the ground and take his nod as an affirmative and continue. “You left rather suddenly, and I’m wondering what prompted you to leave.” 

“I don’t know.” 

You smile again and lean back a bit in your chair. “I know you remember what I said about ‘I don’t know’ as an answer.” It had to be a rule with him as of day one: 'I don’t know isn’t an answer. It’s okay to not know offhand, but you can’t just leave it at that, Christopher. Otherwise, we get stuck. And I can sit here for the hour making best guesses, but if you don’t give me much to work with, we won’t get very far. I can’t read minds. Sure would make my job easier if I could!' He seemed to understand at the time.

“I honestly don’t know, though.” Chris is staring at the door through his bangs as he talks to you. You wonder if he keeps them that long because it helps him hide. That’s a question for a different day. He takes your silence as an indicator to keep talking. He veers off the path, though, and in a way you didn’t quite expect. “How was your weekend?” 

“Me?” You hum, partially in amusement. “It was fine. I’m curious as to what’s got you interested in me all of a sudden.” 

He ignores that last part. “What do you get up to in your free time?” Chris still isn’t looking at you when he talks, and if anything, he’s carrying more tension in his shoulders as they creep closer to his ears. Avoiding the subject, or trying to gauge if you’re a safe person to talk to, perhaps. 

You have firm boundaries on self-disclosure, but Chris seems kind enough, and if he’s truly trying to make sure he’s safe here, then the benefit outweighs the cost. “This weekend? Gosh, it kinda flew by… Did a lot of cleaning around the house, went to see a show. Nothing special.” 

“What show did you see?” 

“I’ll answer that question if you answer mine,” you said with a signature smile. 

“Again,” he sighs and you can tell he’s getting frustrated, “I don’t know. Why can’t that be an answer?” Now he’s making eye contact, and it’s harsh. A bit cold, as if telling you that he’s not in the mood to argue. His posture hasn’t improved, though, so he’s not trying as hard as he could to intimidate you. Not that he could as readily as he thought; he was quite the challenge during his assessment, but grew softer with time and some practice. Getting used to therapy wasn’t easy for him, and you didn’t blame him in the slightest. 

“It can be an answer, but we can’t leave it at that.” 

“Why not?” 

“What do you learn about yourself if we ignore it?”

Chris pauses and hangs his head a moment longer. His back and shoulders move as he takes a deep breath - something you’ve had to remind him to do numerous times - and when he sits back up, he looks a bit more like the usual Chris that he presents as in session. Composed, if not a bit serious; attentive, and expectant.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Walk me through what happened here on Friday.” 

Chris is eyeing the sofa cushions again, but only briefly, before returning his gaze to you. “You asked me what happened after my father returned. I told you, and then I…” 

More silence. If you gave him time, he’d usually cave and finish his thoughts. He doesn’t seem to handle the silence very well. Most don’t; it’s a fun little therapy trick you and a lot of your colleagues like to use. But Chris isn’t saying anything, and it’s been close to an entire minute. You’ve gone longer with other people, but this was odd for him. 

“It’s okay to keep going.” You’re assuring him with a soft voice. “I was here. You can’t say anything that’d make me judge you or treat you differently.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

Huh. Again, Chris challenged you quite a bit during his assessment, his treatment planning, and maybe a bit during his first session. Not in recent days, though. He started asking that you call him Chris just a few weeks ago, too, so why regress now?

“Which part?” You had a guess, but needed him to say it.

“The ‘not judging me’ part.” 

“Hm,” you frown thoughtfully and start to twist back and forth in your office chair, “I’m certainly not lying about that. This is a safe place for you to talk about whatever you want. You could come in here yelling and screaming at me and I still wouldn’t judge you. That’s not my role.” 

Chris crosses his arms and legs and falls into a slight glare. “It’s human nature to judge.” 

“I guess,” you shrug. “But not here. I did all that schooling for this, remember? You wanted my transcript and everything.” He’s not laughing, nor is he smiling, despite your teasing tone. Usually he'll humor you with a fake note of amusement, but not today. You switch gears. “Chris, I’m serious. Nothing you could say or do is going to make me view you any differently. I know it’s hard to talk about some of this stuff. It’s raw and emotional and sometimes we’re going to react in ways that we didn’t expect. Even if you view yourself a certain way for what happened, that doesn’t mean I’m doing the same. You can say or not say whatever you want, alright? I’ll meet you where you’re at, every time.” 

His shoulders fall as you speak, and his hands have fallen loosely into his lap. He wants to believe you, but it seems like he doesn’t quite know how to do that just yet. He’s been hurt one too many times, and he sees himself in the harshest light possible for what he has or hasn’t done. Now he thinks everyone judges him the way he does, and that’s scary. Unsafe. Rampant with insecurity and second guesses. It drives him mad.

“Why is it so hard for me to talk about what happened last time?” He’s getting upset with himself, busying himself with staring at the sofa upholstery and gently bouncing his foot back and forth from its perch on his knee. “I know you know, you were there. But saying it is difficult.” 

“You’re not used to it. When we hold onto bad things for a long time, and we don’t let ourselves try to feel them out or process them, they build up. All of a sudden, there’s a lot more there, and when you try to tease it apart, more of it comes out than you expected.” 

“Hm.” 

“Think of it like a really messed up game of Jenga. We have a piece of us that comes up, and we don’t wanna deal with it, so we move it somewhere else. Then you get this super unstable stack of blocks, and when you find one you think is okay to move, surprise, nine other blocks come with it.” 

That does net one breathy half-chuckle from Chris, and he’s back to making sustained eye contact. “That’s one way to put it.” 

“What I’ve noticed when we work together is that you try really hard to come up with a reason why something happens. You focus a lot on facts, which is fine, until it gets in the way of you feeling things.” 

Chris shrugs and appears hesitant to admit to it, but acknowledges it with a slight nod. 

“You let yourself feel something on Friday, though.” You prompted him with an upturned palm to continue with the original chain analysis.

Chris nods fully and re-crosses his arms. He keeps staring at the spot on the couch closest to you now. It seems like he’s getting nervous: he’s popping his knuckles one by one and his chest moves a bit more rapidly as he breathes. 

“What happened on Friday, Chris?” 

It takes him a few long seconds of gently biting his lip and bouncing his foot until he speaks again, and his usually deep voice is suddenly soft and bordering on timid. “I started crying, and I left.” You nodded, and when he looked back at you, you gave him another fraction of a smile and encouraged him to continue. “I guess I panicked. It’s…” He swallows and closes his eyes, and you wonder if he’s trying to fend off more tears. “No one’s seen me cry since I was a child.”

Ah. You knew it probably ran pretty deep, but Chris just recently turned 21, according to his chart. Imagine, ten years of not shedding a single tear in front of anyone… Ten years of going out of his way to actively prevent himself from crying in front of anyone. It’s a taxing, tiring task, especially given all that he’s been through. So to cry in front of you, a practical stranger who’s paid to talk to him, must have been a challenging endeavor. 

“It’s a pretty vulnerable state to be in.” You tried to meet his eye as you spoke with no success. They’re still closed in a silent refusal to engage fully in the conversation. “A lot of the time we’re told that crying is synonymous with weakness, and it’s not, but it does mean showing people that we might not feel so confident in the moment. And it means we’re telling someone that something hurts, and that we’re trusting them to not make it hurt more. That doesn’t always happen, so sometimes we try to fight it whenever we feel like it’s going to happen.” 

Chris swallows harshly again and nods. He’s pressing his lips together, and his eyebrows are furrowing as time ticks on. 

“I hope I’m not overstepping, Chris, but it looks like you’re trying really hard not to cry again.” 

Chris looks like he might laugh, but instead he sobs, just once, and buries his face in his hands. He’s hunched over on your sofa, crying, but not as openly as before. Last time it seemed like he didn’t even know he had tears building up in the corners of his eyes, nor did he initially react when they started to fall. Now he’s hiding before the tears can slide down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he says in a whisper. 

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re apologizing for.” 

“This,” he continues, and his voice is getting thick with pent up sadness. “I don’t like feeling this way.” 

“You never have to apologize for the way that you feel. What word would you put to that feeling right now, Chris?” You get up from your chair and move the tissue box on the coffee table closer to him. He doesn’t move. “Chris, here.” Your tone is softer now, too, talking as if your words could break him. 

He takes one with a barely audible ‘thank you’ and immediately starts patting his eyes dry. “Sad. Upset. I don’t like crying.”

“It doesn’t always feel good, but it serves a purpose.” 

“It feels worse when you sit so far away from me. Like I’m scaring you away for feeling how I feel.” 

There it is. The admission of fear; worrying that emotional expression is going to drive people away, because it’s not what they’re used to seeing from him. Chris wants someone to comfort him. Last session, you didn’t make a move to react when he started tearing up. You let him cry, openly, and most of the people you’ve worked with are okay with that. Not Chris. Chris wants someone to be there for him, the same way he’s trying so hard to be there for his friends and family. He works himself into the ground for their sake. They must not be returning the gesture as frequently as he needs, or wants, and it hurts. And, as usual, he blames himself. A constant trend, a theme you’ve noticed each time you meet with him: it’s his fault, he thinks.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” You’re genuinely apologetic. You can see how it wouldn’t feel good to open up to a stranger who claims to care, only for them to remain perfectly neutral in times of need. Chris wants action, not just words. And you care, so you offer to move. “Would you like me to sit closer, or do you want to move?” 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” But he gestures to the cushion on the far left of the sofa that he’s been looking at since he came in. 

It’s a breakthrough for him, really. He’s letting small streams of tears fall down his cheeks, and he’s asking for help. He’s not running, he’s not hiding. So you oblige and follow through with his request, letting him know that he can move or ask you to move if he wants more space. 

You face him on the sofa for the rest of his session, though. It’s what he wants, and he’s finally practicing telling people what he wants. What he needs. The rest of the hour flies by without issue.

“Are we still meeting this Friday like usual, or…?” Chris is on his feet and getting ready to leave.

You forgot it was Monday. You had a cancellation and offered it to Chris, given his emotional state last Friday. “If you want; it’s entirely up to you.” 

“I’d appreciate it if we could.”

“I’ll see you Friday, then.” 

You get the door for him, and it’s surprising when he leaves. Not because he thanks you for your time, like usual, but because he thanks you for your time with a sliver of a smile, and it's genuine. A breakthrough for him, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I also have an ongoing fic / nanowrimo project featuring multiple sessions with Chris and a nameless therapist. the man has a lot of trauma and depression that he needs to work through. so if you wanna read more about that... yeah.


End file.
